After Eleven
by EmmanuelleG
Summary: What if Erik had made a mistake ? When the grasshopper doesn't jump, Christine isn't merely forced to consider the possibility of life after eleven - she has to live it. Dark. Three shot. Leroux.


**After Eleven**

The clock was as broken as her mind. It did not go forward, bur nor did it run in the opposite direction. The arrows remained stuck in the present, just like she was. Christine could not bring herself to think of the future; just weighing her options against one another brought bile up her throat. No, better to stare at the wall until it hurt.

Perhaps bang her forehead against it. Yes, that was an agreeable activity. It involved so little. Back and forth, back and forth. _Crack_. No thinking. How very, very lovely.

In confusion, she watched Erik storm in, and he was like a great, angered animal. He tore her away from the wall, muttering (or was he shouting ?) obscenities which soon turned to the pleas she'd grown accustomed to.

"Stay in the chair, Christine, don't get up. You will fall if you do. Silly, silly girl."

Silly, silly Erik. She was bound, how could she rise in that state ? Her logic however never clashed with his, and Christine let him rage and dot and fret over her.

With the help of a bowl of cold water and a washcloth, he dabbed away the insanity clouding her vision. The first splash made her open her mouth. The second sent droplets trickling from her forehead to her lips; they traveled down the bridge of her nose and eased into her mouth. Water and salt. Water and blood. Who was bleeding ?

The third splash brought Christine Daae back to life.

She would have wailed, howled her agony and despair, but felt oddly empty. She was, in a way, as shattered as the man who knelt in front of her.

His mask was on; whether for her benefit or because he hadn't found the time to remove it so soon after their flight, Christine couldn't tell. The bloodshot eyes found hers, traced the curve of her neck, settled on her collarbone.

Then he spoke, quietly and assuredly. Someone had to be in control.

"How is your decision coming along ?"

"My decision, Erik ?"

"Yes, yes." And he twirled a lock of her pale hair around his finger.

She turned her head away, and he sighed. That one gesture (how simple, how very simple) caused him to withdraw entirely. The cloth fell into her lap, dampening it, water soaking through layers of skirts. The hand near her temple lowered; down, down, down until she could no longer see it. Such detached, precise movements appeared innocent enough to the untrained eye. But hers was not. He was leaving behind compassion, abandoned it like a stray, useless dog – he wasn't offering it.

"I suppose that is an answer," he said, his voice as dead as her eyes had been when she'd denied him. "But nothing is set in stone. Perhaps I'll coax a different song out of you before eleven."

"What happens after eleven ?"

"Nothing in particular, Christine. We'll _jump_. Maybe you will try to fly away, and maybe I'll drag you back down." He parted his longs arms before her, shrugging mockingly. "We shall see. Live in the present, they say."

"Your words are nonsense. You are mad," she whispered angrily.

"Delightfully so. I have you to thank for that. I had so little sanity left already, Christine, and you just had to push me over the precipice. Well. It does not matter anymore." Erik rose to his full height, towering over her, a black god with eyes of fire and brimstone. "Nothing, nothing, nothing matters," he chanted as he left.

Indeed, she could almost see his sanity trail uncertainly behind him, keeping company to his shadow and wondering whether it was worth the bother to stay.

_He burns like his Don Juan. _

She briefly wondered if Erik's demons had at last caught up with her for voices came through the wall. But it was only her fiance of a moment, kind Raoul with silk on his upper lip, a boy who was more of a man than his brother.

She said he shouldn't have come and he replied he'd always find her. He did, he did find her, and much good it had brought both of them. A pleasant, albeit worried, baritone joined their frenzy of a conversation then.

"We will die of heat, Mademoiselle, you must let us out."

"Out of where ? Where do you hide ?"

"In the forest."

The forest beyond the wall. Christine threw her head back and laughed. The sound alerted her passionate jailer, and the door was swung open.

"You must untie me," she told him tenderly. "You must or else how will I put on the ring ?"

He lingered in the doorway still. "Why, I'll slide it on your finger of course."

But then he was at her side, tugging at the various, tiny knots. In his hurry to get her free, he could have easily, and accidentally, loosened some of the ties of her dress. Would her shoulder be bare once she stood, Christine thought, would he notice the skin ? Would he press her to put on the wedding gown or would he consider such formalities unnecessary given their circumstances ? Christine had no strength left to care. Husbands were entitled to all; hopefully, he wouldn't remain hers for very long.

"Do you want me to marry you at the Madeleine ?" he asked as he assisted her to her feet. "Do you want a choir, a fat priest with enough gold around his neck to feed the starving, an altar boy between us with a velvet pillow for the rings ?" He looked her over. "Perhaps the train of your dress ought to be elongated. Do you know a good seamstress, Christine ? No ? We'll just have to make inquiries then. Oh, don't look at me so. I thought you wanted pretty little girls to carry the hem of your dress as you walked. It isn't near long enough as it is now. And flowers, yes there shall be flowers..."

"You mock me," she said dejectedly, rubbing her sore wrists.

Erik snapped his fingers before her nose, and her attention was his again. Undivided. Hearing those thin bones crack always sent a shiver down her spine.

"I was willing to give you a semblance of it," he confessed. "Maybe not the Madeleine, but I would have entered a church for you. Maybe I would have even burned while standing by you, repeating my vows, but that pain I'd have gladly endured. What's the saying again ? Ah yes. Live in sin." His hand hovered inches from her face, but never settled on her cheek. He was fidgety, agitated, moving left then right. "That's what we'll do, Christine. Live in sin. Or half in sin. Is that even possible ? You will wear my ring after all; surely that counts for something. Does God make compromises ?"

And while speaking, he gently led her away from her room and into his. The Dies Irae on the wall was gone. The angry letters rested at her feet, ripped to shreds by an uncaring hand. She stepped over the pile, and found herself looking at Erik's chest.

"You will sit down," he informed her and pushed Christine down onto the organ bench. The beast mounted into the wall seemed to wink at her as light glided over its surface. It'd been partly destroyed. "You will stay here," he continued his clipped commands. "And if you harm yourself...Oh Christine." Erik took her face into his hands, without modesty or shame as before, to look at her one long, long moment. She felt her jaw go bloodless from the pressure. "Oh Christine," he repeated, sighing, "the opera will go up in flames. This is no jest. Should I tie you up again ?" It was said softly, ponderously, as though he truly desired her opinion.

She gripped his lapels, grabbed fistfuls of the black material to steady herself. "I won't." And she was free.

His fingers performed their rapid dance. Jingling of keys was heard, and then he was locking her in this room without a bed. It was so much cooler than her own.

"Where are you going ?" she called before he shut the door. "Don't leave me here alone, Erik. You know how your room unsettles me."

"Perhaps you'll be willing to decorate ours when we move, darling Christine, just to make sure it's to your liking. And to answer your question, it seems that we're to have one more guest tonight. Oh dear, better polish the silverware."

When he was gone, she searched the room for another exit – there were none. Erik was master of his lair, but this particular place obeyed him wholeheartedly. It seemed alive with his rage. Seething. The organ threatened to jump out and devour her; the scattered requiem wished to reassemble and play itself until she ended her life; the coffin just stood there, oddly inviting. The bedsheets had been partly thrown to the floor, were a crumpled mess. Would he enlarge it ? Would they climb inside together by the end of their unhappy story ? Would she be the one to pull the covers off the ground in the morning (and perhaps an item of clothing or two ?) Or maybe they'd just curl up and wither. It would be fitting.

Christine tried raising her voice, but the walls of Erik's room were thick, allowing none of the outside warmth to enter or any sound to leave. In the end, her throat was raw and it pained her to speak. That was sure to upset him.

He came back dragging his leg. She'd noticed the slight limp weeks ago, but never commented upon it. Now, however, he was soaking wet from head to toes and the trouble with walking was evident. His mask clung to his skin, defining the sharp features of his unique face, leaving no room whatsoever for imagination. In a certain regard, this layer of modesty rendered him more grotesque than his actual features.

She chose to disregard the way he breathed (ragged, sharp inhalations) or how his pale hands had a crimson hue to them. She did not look at the scratches on his neck, focusing her attention on the puddle of blood and water which grew by the instant around him. Like a figure from a nightmare (a _draug_, a true _draug_ !) he reached for her and she came into his arms. His content sigh crashed against her temple, intimate and hot.

Briefly, he leaned against her for support, saying, "How impolite to seek audience at such an hour," and then collapsed on the bench. "Now I bleed again."

Unsure, frightened, distraught, she said, "Erik ?"

And just as unsure, but not frightened, and only a little confused, he answered, "Fetch some wine from the kitchen, Christine."

This was the moment. The moment to get out and run into her room. She did as she was bid. Christine uncorked a bottle (white, red, white, red ?) and automatically, without thinking, filled two glasses. It took her a minute to realize the ridicule of the situation. But by then, Erik had joined her. He looked the scene over with a critical eye before snatching the nearest glass and emptying it. Whatever remained in the bottle, he splashed over his thigh, hissing through gritted teeth.

Not a word had been said, and the silence weighed heavily on Christine's shoulder. She felt the same creeping madness which possessed her to damage her forehead return; something throbbed behind her eye, a dull and constant ache.

The pregnant pause stretched into an endless eternity. He was such a talkative man when angry, his words either fire or ice depending on his mood. The lull before the storm. He'd spent his quota of gentleness for the evening when he welcomed her into her arms; there would be no more of it.

"Erik," she cried. "Where are you going ?"

"To my room, Christine."

"But why ? Why ?"

"Because I need to stitch this wound before I bleed out, and you need to go and talk to your wall some more. Both tasks require privacy."

A stone waltzed around in her stomach. She felt sick. He knew. Of course. Christine tipped the glass to her lips to drink some more.

* * *

It's a three shot, nothing very long. I just felt like posting it. Also I feel like there's a lack of Leroux lately. I will honestly do anything (no shame people, I have no shame) for the person who writes a dark Leroux story/one shot/two shot/etc. Anything.

On this note, enjoy XD


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